


a gesture, a phrase

by renaissance



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Sharing Clothes, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7010191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/renaissance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the road, in summer, a habit emerges.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a gesture, a phrase

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ssstrychnine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/gifts).



> This is for Billie's prompt of "sharing clothes" for this ship! I was at a bit of a loss about what to write until she attacked me with this ridiculously perfect band AU and then I knew exactly what I had to do. (Also thank you for looking over it for me!)
> 
> Title is from Belle & Sebastian's "The Book of You," because no band fic would be complete without a pretentiously obscure song lyric title.

The first time it happens, they’re in Nowhere, Virginia, in the middle of summer and the nights are late, the air heavy with smoke from the open fire down the road and fireflies. It’s the kind of day where Adam feels like he could wave a hand in front of him and it would cleave a path straight through space, and maybe time too.

They’re parked out the back of the venue, inconspicuous, although they’re not famous enough to warrant that sort of attention anyway. And it’s an open question whether their tour van could ever be called inconspicuous, effervescent in orange, with a black stripe spray-painted around the side. Gansey wanted it over the top—just like his Camaro, which was too small to take the lot of them on tour—but none of them were brave enough to climb a ladder with a stencil, so it’s striped around the side. Henry says it looks a bit like a bee, that they should give it more stripes. Gansey exercises veto power.

Blue’s in the back, sewing. Needle and thread in her hands, drumsticks crossed in her hair, held up with hope and mysteries, she has two shirts that the last band left in the green room at the last venue they played. There is not much to signify that they were ever shirts, though. One is now just a sleeve; the other is some sort of frill around the bottom of a third shirt, one long sleeve left intact, much older. And around her, assembled on deck chairs set out just a bit away from the van, her captive audience.

“Incredible,” Gansey says. “It’s like watching art in motion. The union of form and function.” He has a bottle of craft beer in one hand, but it hasn’t gone down even a bit since it was handed to him. He also has his acoustic resting over his knees. Adam watches the tilt of the brown glass bottle, just waiting for the moment it spills a little into the sound hole. But it’s Gansey, and he’s perfect, so it never does.

Ronan has his feet up on a cooler, and his bottle is almost empty. Adam watches him, too, although he tries not to be too obvious about it. Ronan feels heat like no-one else, but he also refuses to compromise on his principles of fashion, and he never wears anything but jeans. He doesn’t wear socks, though, and if that means Adam is strangely fixated on the little skin that shows between the frayed hem of Ronan’s jeans and the fold where he’s turned down the side of his off-brand high-tops, then. Well.

“I’d say function follows form,” Henry says. He’s watching Blue too, tapping out a sonata on the arm of his chair, watching as she pulls the needle and thread through a makeshift hemline. She makes sure it’s taut before tying it off, inspecting the new sleeve.

Then, she takes scissors to the shirt and cuts it right down the front.

“Ta-da!” Blue holds up her creation, so proud she glows. “A jacket, for our stylish frontman.”

It’s a moment before Adam realises he’s being addressed, indirectly or otherwise. The jacket is an old shirt with one long sleeve, one short, a frill sewn around the bottom, and haphazard swatches of other fabric to break it up. There are a few safety pins here and there, because it wouldn’t be one of Blue’s creations without them. Adam loves it.

“It’s great,” he says, putting aside his beer to take the jacket and hold it against him. Endearingly misshapen, it might be a little small, but not too tight that he won’t be able to move his arms.

Ronan clears his throat. This means he wants to say something, but because someone like him would never let people know when he wants to say something, it can be excused as a cough. Adam glares at him, because that’s the most effective way to get Ronan to say something, until he spits it out.

“You’re not planning on wearing that over your jacket, are you?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Adam says. He shrugs off his leather jacket—well, it might not be leather; it’s hard to tell in a thrift store. It’s the only part of the frontman _look_ he had conceded to adopt, but if Blue has other plans, then Blue has other plans.

Looking back to Ronan, Adam throws the leather jacket at him. “Catch.”

“What the hell am I meant to do with this?” Ronan asks. “At your service, Master Parrish, let me have it pressed and laundered while I’m at it.”

“You don’t press and launder a leather jacket,” Gansey says, a little indignant.

“Wear it,” Adam says. It’s not a suggestion.

So Ronan puts it on. “You’re fucking mental,” he says. “It’s too hot for leather.”

Adam just shrugs, because he is made of Virginia summers and dusty bonfire air, of fireflies and dirt. Heat will never phase him. Though the material is thinner, he feels just as warm in Blue’s patchwork jacket. He keeps his eyes on Ronan, and Ronan doesn’t look away, because Ronan never backs down from a contest, and also because Ronan likes Adam, and Adam knows it, so Ronan won’t show any weakness. As though staring like this is normal.

The mood falls apart when the back door to the venue swings a full 180 open, clattering against the brick wall. Noah sticks his head out. “You’re on in twenty. Are your guitars even tuned? I’m only human, you know.”

Gansey is thoroughly apologetic, and he and Blue rush to help Noah, an unspoken contest of who is the more diligent bandmate for their long-suffering roadie.

Henry lingers a second. “Do you two need a moment?”

“Why the fuck would we need a moment?” Ronan snaps, kicking his feet off the cooler and storming into the venue. Noah gives Ronan an amused look as he passes, and Ronan flicks him in the forehead.

“It’s fine,” Adam tells Henry. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

The second time it happens, they’re further south, and the afternoon is humid. Adam mans a solo mission into town, because Blue has decided that tonight they are going to be fancy, and they need to dress accordingly. So he finds himself in a craft store, in front of a wall of plastic flowers, twined with green, papery leaves. He thinks maybe Ronan is the only one who wouldn’t wear a flower crown. But Ronan never goes along with any of Blue’s costume ideas. It’s how he shows her affection.

Adam wastes time, because he’s early, and because he needs the time to himself. He loves his bandmates like family, like the old friends that they are, but driving around the country and living out of the back of a van with them… there’s only so much he can take before he needs to be alone.

He picks out some of the small, delicate white flowers, the ones that will probably match anything, not that Blue cares if their accessories match their clothes. _Fancy_ , Adam thinks. He picks some fake roses too.

Growing up, he never went to craft stores. He never had the time or the money. Now, he has a little bit of both, and so he lingers, turning into another aisle. There’s all sorts of shit he doesn’t understand why anyone would ever need, like pipe cleaners and pom poms and black paper that shows a rainbow gradient if you scratch into it. There are stickers which catch holographic in the light and there are stickers in three dimensions, pot plants with their flowers reaching off the page.

There are stick-on rhinestones, and Adam takes a whole lot of those, because they seem _fancy_ too.

Outside, he checks his watch—partially to see that it’s still there, given the state of the leather band. He has time, so he walks. They dropped him here in the van on the way to the bar they’re playing at, but Adam knows they’re probably unloading now, so he can’t rely on a lift. There’s probably a bus, but this is unfamiliar territory and Adam has a gas station map with a rough line in red ballpoint, Noah’s handiwork.

Anyway, walking is nice. The town is quiet; no different from any other small town they’ve visited on this tour, but softer somehow. The buildings feel older, shopfronts worn to pastel, and the grey sky tints the streets something eerie. Maybe it’s because he’s on his own, but Adam hasn’t felt this whole for weeks.

He’s five, maybe ten, minutes away when it starts raining. Not just raining—pouring, storming, drenching Adam to the bone. When he was a kid, someone told him that if you run in the rain you’ll get more wet than if you walk. Adam always thought that sounded made up. He allows himself to run.

The map gets soaked through, but the red ballpoint line does not run. Adam stops for breath at the front of the bar. They’re not playing for an hour yet, but even then, there would be no-one queueing up to see them. Quite alone, Adam slumps against the doorframe and runs a hand through his sodden hair, the map decaying in the other.

It’s Noah who finds him, with his sixth sense. “Wow,” he says, “you look like shit.”

Adam laughs, closing his eyes to the raindrops clinging to his eyebrows. Time alone is all well and good, but his friends are worth a lot, too. “I got caught in the downpour on the way back,” he says. “At least I picked up some stuff at the craft store, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Noah peers into the plastic bag looped around Adam’s wrist. “Nice, these are nice. Real fancy.”

“Blue will like them,” Adam agrees.

There’s no backstage in a bar, no green room. There’s a men’s room with three filthy urinals and one cubicle that doesn’t lock. The hand dryer doesn’t work when Adam crouches under it, trying to get his hair to dry, so he resigns himself to staying sodden. Water and electricity don’t mix, but Adam might be able to get away with an unplugged acoustic if they refine their setlist. At least he might have a change of clothes in the van. Probably. If Blue hasn’t cut them up by now. They do these things on a day-by-day basis. At least he should be able to find a towel. Probably.

The door to the bathroom creaks open while Adam is still squatting beneath the hand dryer. “Uh,” he says.

“Um,” Ronan says.

Adam gets to his feet and almost slips on the tiles. He rights himself with a hand on the top of the dryer. It feels like it might fall off the wall.

“You need clothes,” Ronan says.

“It’ll be fine,” Adam says. “Blue probably has something.”

Ronan answers by taking off his shirt.

“Uh,” Adam says.

“For the meantime,” Ronan says. “Come on. I can get away with walking around like this. You’ve got your wholesome image to maintain.”

At that, Adam snorts. “Sure. You just want to show off your tattoo.”

“Whatever,” Ronan says. His fist is balled around his shirt, and he holds it out to Adam. “Are you gonna wear it or not.” It’s not a question.

“It’ll only get wet too,” Adam says, but he takes off his shirt too and swaps it for Ronan’s. The fit isn’t too bad. It’s a little bit punk, not quite wholesome, but it’s dry, and Adam’s thankful for that. He watches as Ronan wrings out his shirt over the dirty sink.

When he leaves, he tries not to think about what the others will say. They’ll be too focused on Ronan, anyway. Probably.

 

* * *

 

The third time it happens, it’s sort of a thing. Not the clothes thing. The Adam and Ronan thing. The Ronan and Adam thing. That’s what Henry calls it, interchangeably. Noah calls it adorable and inevitable. Blue calls it a pain in the ass. Gansey doesn’t call it anything, but he tells Adam one late night when they’re brainstorming over IHOP coffee that his lyrics have a slightly different meaning now. Adam blushes furiously and doesn’t talk to Gansey for the rest of the week.

It’s not really a Thing, though—it’s a work in progress, it’s Ronan catching fireflies and dropping them on Adam’s head when he’s pretending to sleep before a show, it’s Adam putting leftover rhinestones on Ronan’s bass and Ronan acting like it’s an affront to his aesthetic, but keeping them.

It’s a hot summer night, the two of them wandering away from the others. They’re in a country town which is rural enough that it almost feels like Henrietta. Adam could never seem to sever himself from Henrietta, even when he left for college, and now his hometown is following him on tour. There are early fireworks one field down from where they’ve parked the van, around the stage of the sole outdoor gig on their schedule. It stays light late and they’re not playing until it’s dark. There’s another band out there now. Adam wonders if their tours are anything like his.

Ronan stops when they’re far enough away and crouches down, sifting the grass through his fingers. “Parrish.”

“What.” Adam doesn’t sit, because he likes having one eye on the van, bright orange against the setting sun, like a beacon. He thinks that if he loses sight of it he might not be able to find his way back.

“It’s been a month,” Ronan says.

“On tour,” Adam says, “yeah. I’m trying to imagine going back to college in a few weeks.”

“I’ll come visit,” Ronan says.

Adam kicks Ronan’s knee. Ronan does an admirable job of staying upright. “You already come visit,” Adam says.

“I mean.” Ronan looks like he’s faltering with the physical effort of whatever he’s trying to say. “I mean I’ll come. More than usual.”

“Are you trying to ask me out?”

Adam bites his lip. For a moment, Ronan doesn’t respond. Then, he tugs at Adam’s ankle, and Adam gets the message—Ronan has always favoured actions over words. He acts like he doesn’t think before he acts, but Adam thinks that the actions _are_ his thoughts. He joins Ronan, crouched in the field.

“If you think this is going to end with summer—”

“Shut up,” Ronan says. “As if I’d think something like that.”

Just in case, Adam kisses him. He knows Ronan doesn’t need reassurance, because Ronan is strong—but he’s strong in his own way, and even he might need someone to be there for him, sometimes. Ronan kisses him back with all the spark of the fireworks but none of the veneer and, gently, Adam rests a hand against his chest and Ronan obliges, falling with his back to the grass.

“Hey,” Ronan says, “have you ever, you know…”

“I don’t know,” Adam assures him.

Ronan looks pained. He wears sentiment well, usually, but this is new and there’s none of the ease he has when he’s looking after small birds or planting trees. “That song you wrote last week,” he says.

A plane passes overhead, and a breeze parts the night air. Adam grins. “Oh.”

“It’s not about—is it?”

“No, no,” Adam says. “I did write a song about you, though. It’s called _The Trouble With Bassists_.”

“Oh yeah? What are the lyrics?” Ronan slips a hand under Adam’s shirt and runs it down his side, fingers light but tense.

Adam tries not to show how affected he is. “I don’t know,” he says, each breath measured, “it hasn’t got any yet. It’s just a bassline.”

“You think you’re so funny,” Ronan says through a laugh. Adam laughs too, not because he thinks he’s funny, but because he’s in a field lying on top of Ronan Lynch and he’s never felt so powerful, like he holds life at his fingertips.

But a tacit agreement is still agreement. Something clouds across Ronan’s face, a flicker of his eyelids closing and opening, a look in return to—to something, to whatever is written on Adam’s face. A promise.

Ronan’s hands wander further, pulling Adam’s shirt up and over his head, lost to the grass. The heat sticks to Adam like a second skin, a costume with no artifice. He feels a bead of sweat running down his back, feels Ronan trace it and then the press of a hand, fingertips, palm, wrist. The night air is clear and intoxicating and Adam allows it to come to him in waves. He’s here and he’s nowhere, he’s just this summer and he’s the rest of his life.

Somewhere in the moment, in all the moments at once, Adam takes Ronan’s shirt off too, pulls them closer together in the open air, in the long grass, but with all the privacy they’ll never have in the tour van. It’s like a bright light in front of his eyes, a sensation unknown and intimately familiar.

And it almost lasts, until a voice from some way away somehow makes it to Adam’s right ear. It’s Gansey, calling, “Ronan? Adam? Are you two around here?”

Watching as Ronan’s expression turns to panic, Adam supposes he must look the same—he rolls to the side and fishes for his shirt, pulling it over his head. By the time he can hear Gansey’s footsteps, crackling through the grass, he’s upright, and if there’s a flush on his face, he hides it well.

“There you are,” Gansey says. “Shooting the breeze. We’re doing a soundcheck.”

“We did a soundcheck earlier,” Ronan says. Adam chances a glance, and he looks pissed off. “There’s another band out there.”

“Just to tune up behind the van,” Gansey says. “That’s alright, isn’t it? Or—or did I interrupt you?”

Adam blinks his vision into focus. “Interrupt what?”

Gansey looks away. “You, er—you might want to swap your shirts back before we start the soundcheck.”

He leaves them to it.

Adam tilts his head down to inspect the shirt he’s wearing, crude and tattered and very _Ronan_. Beside him, Ronan is wearing _his_ shirt, rough around the edges and with a few scraps of fabric sewn onto it by Blue. They don’t say anything, but Adam has it in him to laugh when he meets Ronan’s eyes and, not as begrudgingly as he’d like it to seem, Ronan’s lips curl into a smile.

“We should head back,” Adam says. He looks at the shadow he casts in Ronan’s shirt, the breaking darkness across the grass, the sun setting behind the mountains, behind the tour van.

Ronan raises an eyebrow. “Should we?”

They do, but it takes them a while—the third time, the start of something, the first of many.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://memordes.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/_memorde).


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